Dragon Page 8

  "All right, I'm with you so far."

  "He was too good."

  "Excuse me?"

  "He did things he ought not to have been able to do. He stood off armies on his own. At one point he defied the Imperium and made it stick. Things like that."

  "Sounds like you."

  "Yes."

  "Well?"

  "I've been wondering for years how he did it. I've come to the conclusion that he had help."

  "What sort of help?"

  "That's the question, isn't it? Either the aid of a deity or something else."

  "Such as?"

  "Such as he possessed something. Something powerful. Perhaps an object of some kind—"

  "Say, a sword?"

  "Perhaps."

  "Say, a Great Weapon?"

  "That's my guess," said Morrolan. "Based on the fact that it was stolen."

  I nodded. "And so, you go to war to get it, because you want it, and you don't want Fornia to have it." I thought, but didn't say, all of which is why you let him steal it in the first place.

  "Yes," he said.

  "And I go to war because he irritated me."

  "Yes."

  "I guess that makes sense. You think this, whatever it is, will give you any problems?"

  "Fornia isn't stupid. I was protecting Baritt's household, and he violated it. He must have expected reprisals. He knows he is likely to be facing Sethra Lavode, Aliera e'Kieron, the Necromancer, and, if you'll excuse me, myself. He's a fool if he isn't worried about what we can do. That means he thinks he's up to facing us. He must have some reason for thinking so."

  "Uh … I see your point. What do you think? Could he be right?"

  "Maybe. Still interested?"

  "Do you know the Jhereg saying about wizards and knives?"

  "Yes. Do you know the Dragon saying about trying to drown water?"

  "No, and I'd as soon not. It might be too subtle for me."

  Morrolan looked inscrutable and said nothing.

  I went back to my flat and, in spite of the stiffness in my side, threw knives at a piece of wood.

  No one taught me how to throw knives. I remain convinced that there is a better way to learn. But what I did, a few years ago when I decided it was a good thing to know how to do, was this: I set up a piece of wood against a wall, and I bought a bunch of identical knives and positioned myself exactly nine paces away from the target—just about all I had room for at the time. And I just started throwing them as hard as I could. From the beginning my aim was pretty good; there wasn't much damage to the wall. But I must have thrown four hundred of the things, varying my grip slightly each time, until I got one to hit point first. Then I suppose I threw another couple of hundred until I got it to happen again. And so on.

  I have no idea how many thousands of knives I threw at how many pieces of wood before I could regularly stick one in the thing—from exactly nine paces. Loiosh, of course, would periodically make helpful suggestions about how I could convince an enemy to position himself properly.

  How long did it take me to learn to hit a target from any reasonable distance? That's easy: I still can't do it reliably. It's a lot harder than you'd think to get the damn thing to go in point first. And even if you manage, it's hard to nail him so well that he's going to be taken out of the action; all of which might make it seem wasted effort.

  On the other hand, if you throw a knife at a guy, he's going to duck. Besides, you might get lucky. Anything that may give you an edge when your life is on the line is worth putting some work into, don't you think? And another reason, just as important, is the satisfaction one gets from learning a skill—from learning how to do something you couldn't do before. It is a good feeling any time you're dissatisfied with life. And aside from all that, there's something relaxing about the ritual: deep breath, drop your shoulders, focus on the target, let fly.

  So I went home and threw a bunch of knives at a defenseless piece of wood.

  The next day I put in a real day at the office for the first time that week. It felt a little odd. I handled a few loan requests, checked on my various interests, sent one of my boys to jog the memory of a forgetful debtor, and had a pleasant lunch at a nearby inn called the Crow's Feet. Then I had a heart-to-heart talk with one of my people who was starting to use a little heavily and might become unreliable, kidded around with Kragar and Melestav, and got caught up reading the local scandal sheets, none of which had any interesting news. And no one tried to kill me all day. Not even any mild threats. It was refreshing.

  The next day was Endweek, and most of the soreness was gone from my side; Aliera apparently did good work. I said as much to Loiosh, who suggested I hire her.

  Whether I go in to the office on Endweek depends on how much I have going on; that day there wasn't much, so I figured to take the day off, and, that evening, maybe treat myself to a dinner at Valabar's. I mentally went through a list of possible dinner companions and came up with several options. The idea of spending the day finding a nice Eastern girl to share wonderful food with was entertaining. With luck, I figured, maybe I could even forget about this silly situation I'd gotten myself into.

  It was about then that Morrolan made contact with me.

  "What the fuck do you want?" I said pleasantly, as soon as I realized who had invaded my mind.

  "Have I had the misfortune to interrupt something?"

  "You have interrupted nothing; that's why I'm so irritated. What do you want?"

  "If you are available, I should appreciate your company on a short journey."

  "Grand. I assume it's dangerous."

  "No," he said.

  "You're kidding."

  "Are you disappointed?"

  "No, just startled."

  "If you will meet me here—"

  "Can you give me a couple of hours? I want breakfast, and to give it time to settle in before I teleport."

  "Very well," he said, and the contact was broken.

  I made myself an omelet with sausage, onions, teriano mushrooms, and red peppers. I lingered over it. Loiosh cleaned my plate while I cleaned the frying pan. Then I buckled on my sword, secreted little surprises in their appropriate places in spite of Morrolan's assurance, and donned my cloak—a lightweight one, because the breeze coming in through the kitchen window promised a warm day. Morrolan, most likely, was going to take us someplace cold, but if I'd taken the heavy cloak he'd take us someplace hot and I didn't feel like attempting psychic contact with him in order to ask what I should wear.

  I didn't want to call up one of my own sorcerers, so I returned to the House of the Dragon, which turned out to be a mistake; Baron Lokran wasn't there so I had to waste a lot of time finding someone else who would and could teleport me to Castle Black; the worst part being that I had to reach Morrolan to ask him. But eventually I made it there, and I didn't lose my breakfast.

  Lady Teldra gave me her warm Lady Teldra smile and, after a pleasant greeting, did not say, "The Lord Morrolan will join you in the library." Instead she said, "If you will be kind enough to accompany me, I will take you to where the Lord Morrolan awaits." Variation. Something different.

  "Goodness, Boss. What does it all mean?"

  "Glad to," I told Lady Teldra.

  We went up the main stairway, as usual, but continued past the library all the way down the long and very wide hallway. It ended in a door, which brought us to another flight of stairs; these were straight and wide, and reached a landing that swept back in an elegant curve before straightening again. At the top was another hallway; this one I'd never seen before. It was also wide, and it curved gently. Teldra opened a door and gestured for me to precede her. I stepped onto a very narrow circular stairway; the stairs were made of iron and they went up a long way. The door closed behind me. I looked back. Teldra had not followed.

  "Maybe it's a trap," said Loiosh.

  "That isn't as funny as you think it is."

  The stairwell was so narrow I nearly had to ascend sideways, and my
shoulder kept rubbing against stonework. The metal rail was cold against my hand. There were a lot of stairs. It flashed through my mind that we were getting pretty high up, and then I almost laughed when I realized that we'd started about a mile up in the air, so this climb didn't change much.

  At last we reached the top, where there was a thick, black door. I stood outside it like an idiot for a minute, trying to decide what to do, then I clapped.

  "Come in," said Morrolan.

  I opened the door. It creaked melodramatically. I wouldn't put it past Morrolan to have purposely installed a door that would creak melodramatically.

  I was in a round room—about as big around as my flat. The lighting was provided by a pair of half-shuttered lanterns, which gave less light than whatever had lit the staircase on the way up, which meant that I wouldn't be able to see much until my eyes adjusted. I suddenly remembered, from the courtyard, seeing a single tower atop Castle Black. That must be where we were.

  "Brilliant, Boss."

  "Shut up, Loiosh."

  "Notice the window, Boss?"

  "It's the only thing I can see."

  "How come it's night out past the window, and day when we walked up here?"

  "I've been wondering the same thing."

  "That's creepy."

  "Yes, it is."

  My eyes began to adjust. There wasn't much to see, just a low table and a couple of wooden chests. There were curtains all around the tower, and a set of curtains pulled aside from the window; hence there were windows all around the tower, several of them. At least six. Fewer than seventeen, which was both a relief and oddly disconcerting.

  "Boss, when we saw the tower from below, were there any windows?"

  "No."

  "I hadn't thought so."

  I also noticed that Morrolan was wearing his sword. Since Morrolan wasn't accustomed to walking around his home armed, there had to be an explanation. I wasn't looking forward to it. Especially because "armed" in this case meant Blackwand, one of the seventeen Great Weapons. Its presence did nothing to make me feel better.

  He said, "Welcome to the Tower, Vlad."

  "Thank you."

  "There are very few permitted up here."

  "Okay. Would you mind explaining the window?"

  "I don't believe you have had the training necessary to understand."

  "You're probably right."

  "What is important, however, is that I can sometimes make the windows look upon what I wish, and that I can then travel to those places. This can be useful in bringing me to places where I do not have a sufficient mental grasp to teleport, or to a place which lies beyond the confines of what we consider 'the world.' "

  "Handy thing to have around. Do you know any place that sells them?"

  "And, of course, I can bring anyone I wish with me."

  "Uh … I'm not sure I like where this conversation is heading."

  "I have been attempting to solve the problem of determining exactly what Fornia took from that room, and the related problem of why I failed to notice anything significant about it."

  "That's good, Morrolan. A nice mental puzzle will distract you from—"

  "Regard the window, Vlad."

  "Do I have to?"

  But I did, and it was no longer quite black, but had become somewhat grey. A closer look revealed a certain reddish hue amid the grey. And then, near the top, I noticed a bit of orange-red color that seemed a great deal like the sky. The grey had taken on a texture, and suddenly, instead of looking at something mysterious and terrifying, I realized that I was looking at a mountain, with a bit of sky beyond it. Of course, there was no mountain that close to Castle Black, which made it mysterious and terrifying, but you can't have everything.

  "Where or what is it?" I said.

  "We are looking at Hawk Mountain, in the Kanefthali chain." Something in his voice made me look at him; he was exerting a great deal of effort, more than I'd ever seen from him before.

  His left hand was clenched into a fist, turned up, and held stiffly out in front of him at about chin height, the elbow bent. His right hand and arm were moving, going through various gyrations while the fingers extended, contracted, wiggled, twitched, and generally appeared to have a life of their own. Morrolan's eyes were narrowed to slits, and he was breathing loudly, through opened lips, creating a very slight whistling sound through his clenched teeth.

  The thought Earth, water, fire, and air came into my mind as I compared left hand, right hand, eyes, and mouth; but I strongly suspect it wasn't anything that simple. I've seen sorcery, and I've seen witchcraft, and this didn't look like either one. I wasn't at all certain I wanted to know what it was.

  I looked back through the window, and it seemed to be moving—or, more accurately, it seemed as if we were moving.

  My knees suddenly felt wobbly and I didn't like it. I looked at Morrolan again, and he was still staring intently through the window. He was making aimless gestures with his hands, and there were beads of sweat on his forehead.

  The mountain appeared to rush at us, and I actually felt a falling sensation. I stepped backward and looked for something to brace against. Then it slowed and stopped, and just outside the window, so close I could touch it, was a dirt path leading to a cave that looked to be about forty feet away.

  My heart was still racing. I glanced at Morrolan, who now seemed entirely relaxed; only his breathing showed that he had recently exerted himself.

  "What's going on?" I managed.

  "We're going to ask—"

  "We?"

  "—our questions of someone who might know the answers."

  "Why 'we'? What am I doing here?"

  "Just in case."

  "I thought you said there'd be no danger."

  "I don't expect there will be."

  He stepped through the window, and just like leaving an ordinary window of an ordinary house, he stood on the ground outside, on a rocky path, about forty feet from the entrance to a cave. I sent a suspicious look at the cave. I've never been that fond of caves at the best of times.

  "But," continued Morrolan, "it never hurts to have an extra blade along just in case. They can be unpredictable."

  "Who is they?"

  "The Serioli," he said. "Come on."

  "Wonderful," I muttered, and stepped through the window.

  Interlude

  Maneuvers

  Some things you do, you never seem to be done with; years later they come back and remind you, slap you, beat you up. Here I am telling a story of what happened years ago, trying to remember how I felt back then, and—well, forgive the digression, but it belongs here.

  Just today, Sethra the Younger returned from exile (Sethra Lavode exiled her off the world a few weeks ago in punishment for, well, never mind what for) and sent word asking me to wait upon her. I don't like her, she doesn't like me, and I couldn't imagine how this could be anything good. And there would be no reason for me to go if I had steered clear of Dragonlords and their business, but since Baritt died I've surrounded myself with them, and now I'm in love with a woman who used to associate with Norathar, who is Dragon Heir to the throne. All of which made it difficult to decline the invitation.

  Sorry for the confusion—but that's what happens when you start in the past and the present comes up and bites you. And it's what happens when you hang around with Dragonlords. I'd always thought of Dragons, above all, as simple and straightforward—if something gets in your way, you draw and charge and keep hacking until either it's gone or you are. This is another thing I was wrong about. Watching Sethra put together her campaign, arranging for supplies to be where they were needed, anticipating movements and preparing possible countermarches, guiding her intelligence services—well, okay, war is more complex than I'd thought, so I suppose recounting it has to be complex as well.

  "What in blazes could Sethra the Younger want of me, other than my life, which I'm not prepared to part with?"

  "Couldn't say, Boss. But you know you're go
ing to go find out, so why not admit it?"

  There wasn't much answer to that, so I went ahead and made the arrangements, responding through proper channels, and arrived at Castle Black, where she is staying. We met in one of Morrolan's sitting rooms. She is odd; her features remind me quite a bit of Sethra Lavode's but all done in pastels, and Sethra the Younger was without the terrifying sense of agelessness and power; nevertheless, she has her own aura—a ruthlessness and lust for power that one might expect in a Jhereg.

  She tried not to be obvious about how much she disliked me, but casual conversation was beyond her.

  "The sword," she began abruptly.

  "What sword?" I asked.

  "You know damned well—" She stopped, swallowed, and began again. "The sword that was recovered at the Wall of Baritt's Tomb."

  I admired the way she put that. "Was recovered." Whatever it was she wanted, it wasn't enough to make her admit … oh, skip it.

  "What about it?" I said.

  "I have it," she said.

  "I know," I told her. "I didn't realize it at the time because I didn't know you. But I figured out who you were later. It's funny you should bring this up just now—"

  "If you please, Lord Taltos," she said, as if addressing me by title made her lips hurt.

  "Yes?"

  She looked at Loiosh, riding complacently on my shoulder, then looked away. I heard Loiosh chuckling within my mind.

  I thought about baiting her some more, just because this conversation was so obviously distasteful to her, but I refrained, mostly because I was curious. "All right," I said. "What does this have to do with me?"

  "I want you to act as intermediary for me with the Lady Aliera."

  "You want me … wait a minute." I couldn't decide which question to ask first. I settled on, "Why me?"

  "Aliera doesn't care for me much."

  "Well, come to that, neither do I. So?"

  "Negotiations should be handled by a third party."

  "Then why not Morrolan? Or Sethra?"

  "As for Sethra Lavode, I believe she is still sufficiently vexed with me that I cannot ask her for a favor. And Aliera's relationship with Morrolan is such that she will automatically react with hostility to anything he suggests."